November 2, 2009

I was exhausted before any of the scheduled events from the weekend took place. Anticipation leaves me tired. My brain races up and down with all the things needing to be accomplished. Not only did we celebrate Halloween this weekend, but also Georgi's birthday. Many faces and many costumes and many vodkas.

At the sweltering chef's table at Barbuto we toasted my best friend. We ate plates of pasta and meat and vegetables. Drank red wine and champagne. And Georgi, who too often misses celebrations because of his work schedule, let loose. He giggled and laughed. Once Midnight struck guests started to go their various ways. Following Richard we headed to the West Village, several of us still inclined to go out. Jesse, Charlie, Richard and I wiggled our ways into Allison Sarofim's Halloween party. The theme was 80s, I think, and we 4 were not dressed up! Neither was Lance Armstrong, who for a few minutes stood next to me in a graffiti room filled with way too many smokers. He's pretty short. That made me feel better. And after an hour or so of inhaling smoke and trying to speak over the music we gave up.

The next morning I felt great and Georgi nursed a hangover. We worked out and ate pinkberry and started on our outfits. A quick brunch in the Village with Will Wikle and then back to the house armed with glitter and Kettel One. Our group opted on a loose interpretation of the Wizard of Oz. I, of course, attached tin funnel to head and doused myself in silver paint. Georgi, and his coworker Richard, dressed as very gay Lion and Scarecrow. Alireza, a fashion designer, sewed his own Winged Monkey outfit. Jesse was the Wizard and Charlie went as Glinda. Charlie, never one to paint his face, was found in the bathroom applying more gold. Caught red handed, like a drug fiend scoring a fix, he turned red. We just could not see due to his face paint. Black Corey, who works for a cosmetics giant, arrived with hundreds of dollars in make-up and quickly became our Wicked Witch. Hamish, who I'd just met, was the anti-Dorothy, with mustache, but also, grape sequined shoes. Who needs rubies when you have Patrick Cox one-of-a-kinds? And he brought Toto too.

From our 6th Avenue balcony we eyed the parade. Michael Jackson Thriller was performed by a group of hundreds. One damsel, four Michaels, two hundred monsters. It was thrilling indeed. We downed our beverage, glittered our lips, and ventured into the street. A cop let us into the parade. We marched and screamed, posed with another Dorothy, and descended upon a party that featured True Blood characters, polo players (where, oh where, was Matty K?), and trannies. After that, we jumped on the subway where a convincing Lady GaGa had as much trouble with her rings as the real deal did on SNL. Hamish posed with Ms. Wintour. The rain did not tighten my joints.

We arrived at a ridiculous SoHo apt, the kind from a movie set, you know, and we talked the night away. Until 3AM when the Tin Man got tired and the Lion needed to sleep. Uptown we headed, chewed on some pizza, and passed out. The next day we woke at Noon and left our bed at 6pm. A perfect day of doing nothing, snuggling, remembering the night before, and ignoring emails and phone calls. We finally pulled ourselves out of bed to join Joe and John to see This Is It, the Michael Jackson film. Exhausted, and not necessarily in the mood to see a movie, I was overcome by many emotions. One of sorrow due to the tragic death of Michael Jackson and the obvious clues in the film's footage of bigger issues in his life. But I was also energized when watching a man, a sick man and an aging man, still with great talent and love. About to collapse, we bid our friends farewell, grabbed a burrito, and watched Larry David. Laughing and smiling we climbed back into that bed where we spent the day. Glitter sparkled still in the corner of my eye and on his scalp, catching the light and reminding me of the night before.

Costumes and characters and dancing zombies fade from my memory. Left, side by side, cushioned by foam, a lion and a metal man, nearing sleep. Thrilled to have found each other. Thrilled to have such great friends. And thrilled to have created a home.

There's no place like home.

October 26, 2009

Teresa Smiles ordered fries and a pizza. I opted for the 3 course lunch as I always do. We sat in the hotel lobby side of the Mercer Kitchen, out of view from the windows on Prince. Teresa told me stories of former colleagues of mine, one of which died this year, and another who has recently been diagnosed with lung cancer.

We went on to discuss her mother's health, my father's death, and the the past year and all its turbulence. Teresa absolutely glowed when discussing her two sons. We talked of how things make sense with age. How growing older came with rewards. Things starting to make sense. A personal history begins to show patterns and proof of divinity. Proverbs holding true. Good friends are hard to find, harder to leave, and impossible to forget. Those types of sayings.

Upstate, Marty and Adam, Doug Blue, and Antonious and Christopher joined us. We carved pumpkins and played board games and watched movies and cooked. And over good food we forgot about the new chill in the air. During car rides we sang at the top of our lungs.

A few days later I nibbled on a muffin at Alireza's apartment and watched Pam try on her wedding dress. She, like Teresa talking of her sons, glowed like only a woman can. Alireza's talent was on display and Pam's simple beauty was complimented. She's going to make a stunning bride. I told them that Ben asked me if it was OK if he wore that gingham jacket, originally bought for our nuptials, to her wedding. A few months ago I would have thought it bad taste. But now I hoped he would wear it.

I finally was able to nail down some face time with Hunter and Sandra. We sat at Le Singe Vert and talked of changes and changing. We drank and laughed. And it felt like old times. They're lives are a bit more chaotic these days, but they persevere. Talent does that. And wine poured and dishes arrived and disappeared and we spoke of old times and new adventures and our love lives. No husbands. No filters.

And I ran off in the rain. And arrived at Scott Seviour's apartment. Charlie Herschel was there and Georgi arrived and wine flowed too. We ventured to Cookshop. Wine, rabbit, stories served hot and cold. We discussed break-ups. And I told the story, once again, of meeting Georgi and how it all seemed like destiny. And life's funny little coincidences, like finding out Scott's renting from Matthew Betmaleck, the three of us going through similar situations at the same time, appeared obvious.

Friends arrive in a myriad of ways. Loves sometime appear when least expected. Leaves and temperatures fall around me. My band of outsiders and merrymakers hum an October symphony. Sweet music, wine, and laughter, the instruments.

October 20, 2009

In high school I lived two lives. This is a theme of my life. A natural way to live for a gemini. Standard stuff.

I always ran with girls. No big surprise there. And while I was relatively popular in high school I longed to live among the misfits. I was too normal. Too accepted. Too likable to ever be too odd.

My mother tells me I have always had the ability to relate to anyone. In college I partied with the queers. Cut up with the black girls. Got stoned with the swim team. I was a chameleon.

And this ability still holds true today. I run alongside women and men in equal measure. Stepford queers/circuit boys and those who are sickened by them. Trannies and those my mother's age. I like all people. I want to be like them all. I want them all to like me.

So in high school I was one person by day and one person by night. By day I was smart. Played sports. Hung out with cool people. And by night I sought refuge in Kelli Prive's house. She had cats and a loving mother and a butch little sister. Kelli had a crush on me once, but of course, that went nowhere. Kelli also had a friend, Angie Grant.

Angie had a sense of style years before I'd develop my own. She owned her look. Mary Janes or Creepers. Black and white striped tights. A pleated short skirt. A big, black sweater or shirt. Dyed black bob. Pale face paint. Blood red lips. She was Kelli's foil. Kelli was innocent and insecure, romantic and nerdy. Adorable and caring. Angie was bitter and angry. Aggressive and judgmental. But also accepting and generous. There was a summer, maybe two, when the three of us were inseparable. Kelli had an entire network of freaks: Heather, Dan, Ellie, Jason. They were a bit odd. Not mainstream. Alternative. Goth. Gay. Etc.

Angie idolized Robert Smith. She gave me my copy of Bjork's Debut. She taught me what an art fag was. She taught me what unity skinheads were.

I am sad today because I found out Angie died last week after a bout with influenza. I had not thought of her in probably 10 years. And, sadly, I have too few memories of this time in my life. I don't recall much. Which is a blessing and curse.

I do know this. There was a time she was one of my dearest friends. Someone, whether she knew it or not, who helped me figure out who I was. She left a mark on this man.

And though I don't remember much. Missing conversations and events and friendships. Hidden somewhere very deep in my mind. One thing is easy to remember.

I am a visual leaner. I appreciate the visual. They stay with me longer than any word whispered. Any song sang. Any line written. The image still remains strong. Striped tights, plaid skirt, stained lip. A vision in complete opposition to the style of the time. Someone unafraid and individualistic.

Good night Angie Grant. My heart bleeds the color of your lips.

October 11, 2009

The Tin Man has always been my favorite fictional character. I never made sense of that love for he of funnel hat and silver paint until tonight. I just loved him. Always did as a child. That's all I knew. I had no reason.

Tonight I gathered with some of my favorite people in New York. I made guacamole and cut vegetables and poured wine. And we watched the Wizard of Oz on Blue Ray. 70th anniversary edition of the film. It was beautifully restored. A gorgeous treat. A colorful stroll down memory lane.

Georgi shushed me repeatedly. I just could not be quiet though. Too excited. Enamored by Garland's perfect face full of lips, eyes, and that nose. And about the one liners. "Only bad witches are ugly." Exactly. The flying monkeys had mohawks. The munchkins' costumes were brilliant colors. The scarecrow and lion were funny.

And the Tin Man. He was so gay I could not believe it. We all cackled when he appeared. He lisped a bit. Effeminate voice. Perfect make-up.

Even as a small child I must have related. His eyes were silver blue. They look like my own. How did I not know the Tin Man was so gay? Watching this film, some two decades later, I realized my fascination with this tin woodsman. I saw myself in him. Blue eyed. Gay as can be. Longing for a beating heart.

October 8, 2009

My relationship with Georgi has been built on a series of rituals. He is the ritualistic sort. He has morning routines and night routines and routines for pretty much all parts of the day. He is systematic and rarely throws caution to the wind. Last night he left his work pants draped over the sofa's arm. Seeing this in the AM, halfway through his morning ritual of eating fruit, and before his gym ritual, he stood flabbergasted that he did not properly put away the pants the night before. Maybe I am rubbing off on him.

We view ourselves as a team. A special, private club that only allows us to be become members. We get this joke and none of you even know there is a joke. It's like that. And we have built a relationship, which was first a friendship, about rituals. Spin class every Monday and Friday at 6AM. Breakfasts at Cafe Cluny. Sunday night TV dates. Saturday morning outside jogs. Operas/Concerts/Plays. And of course food preparation.

We both love food and we have adopted this diet where we eat the same things every day. Whether breakfast or dinner the same basic idea, though the items we consume change a bit from morning to night. Lots of raw fruits and veggies. He prefers apples and bananas. I like peaches and berries. He made me appreciate cherries. So much. Lean meats, hams and turkeys. He opts for hummus while I adore tapenade. I will eat a pile of raw nuts and he'll have pita or bread. Raw beets, shredded cabbage, persian cucumbers, celery, jicama, carrots. I like the vegetables more than he does. He eats more meat. But I have gotten him to embrace the avocado. And of course there is the Bulgarian feta, something that I have become obsessed with. Like milk in my house growing up, it is always in the fridge. I will buy a block of it myself when low.

So we cut and clean and prepare these plates of raw veggies and fruits, lean meats, nuts and basic breads, and cheese. Sometimes fifteen different things on a plate. And we crack pepper and drizzle olive oil and balsamic and we eat, sometimes with our hands, until we're full. When not shit and synthetic foods, you can consume a lot. And we're pigs.

Some nights, like tonight, he's not there when I pick out the food. He's also not there to question whether I seriously want to eat 20 radishes. But, regardless of the peace in the vegetable aisle, it is not the same. I pile the plate with food. Raw beets and olives and feta and turkey and avocado. Texture, color, taste perfect. And I eat. And think only of him and how even this, a most basic task, is soaked in malaise. Not even my first love, food, can calm my appetite.

October 7, 2009

Unless you have been living under a rock then assuredly you have witnessed the pop culture tipping point and subsequent freaky-deaky takeover of world by one Miss Lady Gaga. It should be noted that she’s not your typical Madonna-wannabe. She’s the heir apparent.

After a summer of amazing videos (check out Paparazzi to fully appreciate the video artistry), she made her first splash at the VMAs. Had Michael Jackson not died and Kanye West not been an ass, Gaga would have been the most talked about. The show’s host jokingly asked if she were a hermaphrodite. She wore the most ridiculous costumes this side of Cyndi Lauper and Bjork and she channeled Madge and Phantom in equal, ghoulish measure. Oh, and she sang. Yes, Madonna. Britney. Beyonce. She sang.

And then came SNL. Again with the costumes and the (gasp!) singing. And again she presented herself as the new gay icon. Like those past, the Madonnas, the Lizas, the Barbras, she’s not traditionally beautiful. She’s that gay kid’s best friend, the one who danced all night at the club and let you do her make-up. She’s unabashedly gay. No easy feat for a straight woman.

She did a skit with Madonna on SNL. And in 2 minutes my generation’s idol, she of voguing and preaching to papa, was rendered as musically gone as Michael Jackson. And Madonna knew this. It was the passing of the torch. The next chapter. Finally someone as talented, as insane, as intense had staked a claim to the blonde one’s throne. And the manufactured pop stars of the past decade faded away from view. The face of pop is now an odd one with way too much make-up and an unbelievable headpiece.

I could run
I could jump
I could crash
Head goes bump

I could sing
I could wail
I could screech
Vocal chords fail

I could swim
I could stroke
I could thrash
Begin to choke

I would try anything
Impossible things!
I wouldn't even mind
Failing and falling
Crashing and stalling
Messing and bawling

Because even with
Egg on face
Standing last place
A disgrace
I know you're there
Just in case

To pick me up off the floor.

October 3, 2009

It was no different than the hundreds of other friend requests. Someone I do not know requests to be my friend and unless they're a made up profile from someone in the Philippines or a party promoter I accept. Many people get all holier than thou when talking about Facebook friends. "I only accept friendships of people I know." Well, they obviously don't have a widely-read blog and web persona that many people enjoy. I accept these friendships with my fans. Without them I'm nothing.

That is a joke, btw. So, yes. Back to the story. It was late and James Shellhammer added me. Gay. Middle aged. Lives in Missouri. I was intrigued, but there are a good number of Shellhammers out there. Someone with, gasp, the name Brad Shellhammer is already my friend here on Facebook. He knows a friend from San Francisco. Seriously, though, who knows two Brad Shellhammers? Andrew Alford does. There was also that girl with the last name Shellhammer in the news many years back in San Francisco. She either got a lung transplant or lost her arm to a shark. I don't remember. But I remember her name. Point is there are other Shellhammers. There's also a tranny named D Shellhammer. Love her too. There's even a Shellhammersville in Pennsylvania.

After accepting James' friendship I went to bed and woke at 7AM. In bed with laptop in lap I read a note from James Shellhammer. He's my father's half-brother. I have two uncles and two aunts I never knew about. My father's father, who I thought to be dead growing up and who we never knew anything about, had lived. He'd remarried. He had other kids. Georgi looks at me and says James "has your hairline and your cheeks." I call my mother, astonished. Yes, she tells me she's known about this for a week and was going to call me. Sheesh, mom. Not the news you sit on for a week.

In 1990, before he died, John Ronald Shellhammer, my father's birth father, told his family he had fathered a son. That was my dad, Richard Lee Shellhammer. Twenty years later John's family, my father's brother and sisters, tracked down my mother. They found out that their brother, my dad, was dead.

And on Facebook my gay uncle finds me, his new gay nephew. The world moves in mysterious ways. And thoughts of my father. And my grandmother. And my father's childhood. And my own family line all go from very dormant thoughts to front and center. And it is fascinating and exciting. And makes me guilty a bit.

I've never really had the connection to family that others I know do. We had a broken home growing up. My siblings and I were just a little too far spaced out to be in school at the same time and to develop close friendships. And my own homosexuality and dreams of escape, from small-town life, and my father, fueled a path that I set out on: to explore, to get away, and to make family from those I choose. Not those that were chosen for me.

From college until 30 I purposefully kept distance from siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins. This was easy being in California and New York. My family remained close to one another, physically. I got out and needed to make sense of my life. My loves. My thoughts. I wrote and healed and made peace with my father's death, his abuse, his drug addiction, etc.

I could have been a better brother. I could be a better uncle and better brother now. I could call and write and do more than the obligatory gifts at Christmas and sending a gift a few weeks after a birthday. But we're all busy and we're all over the place and we're all so different. At least our lifestyles are. I think Facebook has been a good thing for me and my sisters. I get to eye in on their lives. I do love how liberal politically my sisters have become. My brother, sadly, is not on Facebook. Which is a shame.

I needed to escape my family to create the life I know and love. And in doing that I neglected the people in this world who have known me the longest. From out of nowhere a dark secret, a hidden family, a connection to the people who came before and who share my blood, arises. It shows its face in unexpected phone calls and, not surprisingly, the internet. The place I have found my voice this past decade is the place I find a connection to my father.

My new gay uncle James has read my website for years here and there. Not because he thought we were related but "simply because you are the famous person that you are." Thanks uncle James. Feed that ego.

And at a time of stability in my life. Don't laugh, people. Even in the upheaval of job, home, love, finance, and spirit that 2009 has been, I sit here, clicking away, the most stable I've been. I am resolute in my love. I feel blessed to have friends for life. I feel confident in my professional abilities. And I have found a voice again. My writing flows as naturally and loudly as my ridiculous, feminine voice.

I am in a good place. I have a great career and job I love. I have the most adoring, beautiful lover. I have hundreds, literally, of friends to laugh with and lean on. I live in the most inspirational city in the world. One thing missing though: family.

Maybe this is a sign. A call to action. For me. My mom. My sisters. My brother. My aunts. My uncles. My cousins. New and old.

I look back at the past. Imagine the history and the meager beginnings. The blood relatives. And maybe, just maybe, I should embrace rather than shy away. Writing these things is one thing. Doing them, for all of us, is another.

You can choose your friends. You cannot choose your family. You can, however, choose what you do with them.

October 1, 2009

I'd never eaten Concord grapes. Georgi and Joe both spoke of their difficulty with seeds. I enjoyed the sensation. The rubbery skin with the fleshy center with the crunch of the seed and the sweet-tart taste. Why had I never eaten them before? Suddenly, the flavor of grape soda and candy and juice made sense. That taste came from Concord grapes. I never knew.

I also never knew how allergic I am to the house Upstate. Having been gone for quite some time I returned this past weekend to a constant barrage of sneezes. At times it was laughable and other times it was downright annoying. Ben had never listened to me when I said that I was allergic to those Greek shag rugs. Yes, at the time, I was not really pleading for him to let me get rid of them because of an allergic reaction. It had everything to do with their shedding. Which they still do and, yes, that still makes me mad. Especially when all weekend long, while I strut around like Donna fucking Reed, the last thing I want to see is a clump of fur on my Marcel Wanders sofas. But anyway. There was something more to my dislike of those rugs. They do make me sneeze! I had not sneezed in months! And then suddenly I return and sneeze.

I do adore getting to know people better. I've always said I collect people like others collect stamps. Or pets. Or toys. Or guns. I love people and this weekend I found myself closer to some new friends and I like that. I like that space where you know a new friend is about to become a best friend and you don't rush it. You just let it take natural steps. And this weekend that happened.

Also happening this weekend were a few times when the cultural differences between Georgi and I became an issue. Not problematic. But in the open. And I don't think too often of the vast differences in our life experiences and upbringings, because, really, we two are one. We share way too many similarities and laughs for those things to ever surface. But they did this weekend. And they're cute. Frustrating and cute. And I think of him and me and how different we are and how far away we became men from each other and I am comforted by the thought that we're all, everyone, really, at the end of the day, not too dissimilar from the next. We too are one.

Georgi's traveled far from his home. And as my last musing here suggested, though 180 miles only, I have too. And he claims to have been guided by something greater. That along life's journey someone's looked after him. And when he says this my heart pumps madly because I too feel the same. We both lost our fathers way too soon. I can't help but think their energy force has played a role in all our good fortunes. The least they could do for leaving so quickly.

And speaking of spirits and forces and nature and dead fathers, I told my houseguests this weekend about the ghosts I'd seen upstate. Alireza's seen them too, so hush. I talk about them mostly to fuck with people. I enjoy that, you see. The truth about the ghosts: I have not seen them in a while. I want that house to be haunted, but they're gone. I wonder what I did. I wonder if they left when Ben and I split up. I wonder if I was just having nightmares/dreams back then.

Last night at a party for the Sundance Channel I was chatting with Christopher Barry. He introduced me to Lux from Fleshbot, which got me talking about Jonno, who I miss. And then Lynn Yaeger came and she is one of my idols and I gushed for a minute. We talked about what the party was for, a new Sundance series. And Christopher said that World of Wonder did the show. He pointed to Fenton Bailey. I ran over and said hello. Lynn and Fenton in one room. My little heart, pitter-pattering. Fenton told me some story but it was too loud. And he asked me, well at least I think he asked me, if I was making big bucks blogging now.

Nope, Fenton. Never have. Probably never will. But it won't stop me. It's like breathing. I need it. It's like singing in the shower. It never gets old. But when you want to option the story of a blogger for TV, let me know.

We left the party, Georgi and I, and had a 5 course meal, unexpectedly, at a little Spanish place in the village. We did not plan on such a romantic and tasteful meal to end the night. Someone else, maybe our dads, maybe not, must have steered us there. Sangria stained (concord grapes, maybe?) lips smiling across the table at one another.

September 21, 2009

It could have been the duck. Or maybe the rice pudding. I don't know but something I ate that night got me sick. I was with my mom and my best friends and my boyfriend. We dined and laughed and drank wine at a French bistro around the corner. And it was a fun night. My mother got a glimpse into my life. My friends got to see the woman who gave birth to such a monster. And my boyfriend got to spend time with my mother. I have never loved anyone the way I love them both. So it was special.

So special was the meal that at 5AM the next morning I woke with food poisoning. Obviously, I make daring choices with food or I am prone to bacterial infections. Either way, I puked. I pulled myself together enough to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge with my mother. We even managed to put together a fantastic meal of sangria and paella. But I still felt saddened. Weak. When physically ill I get depressed. In those fits of sorrow I want to cry for no reason. Things appear worse than they are indeed. I just want to stay in bed and not talk.

And thankfully I am not drawn to depression like members of my family. I don't know if I could take it for longer than a brief encounter. I burst into tears this weekend reading about Iraq and extremist groups using internet chat rooms to track down and murder gays. I cried when I thought of Jimmy Carter's comments, backed up by the man I wish ran the country, Bill Maher, that racism is bubbling up at town hall meetings, marches on Washington, and in the chambers of congress. I was emotional.

I also get sad when talking about politics with my mother. My mother instilled in her children, whether she knew it or not, an outlook on the world of that included fairness, equality, and compassion. She was a liberal. I was proud of her. She worked hard and bettered the lives of others via that hard work. She never judged. She always cared.

She's changed. And this is not a judgment call. But my mom is not the person she once was, or perhaps, not who I thought she was. She is in the middle. Not a liberal. And I am saddened to think that this beautiful, caring, compassionate outlook on the world has been replaced with something that does not trust. That does not want to help others as much.

I want my mother and I to have the same political beliefs. And we don't. And that causes me much grief and I cannot tell you why it bothers me so. And perhaps it is arrogant that I want, and feel the need, for her to share my beliefs. But this health care debate and the protest signs and the town hall loonies and the tea party movement smeared in racism and the real threat of losing my lover, a non-American, because of marriage laws all have made me swell with emotion and anger. And I want my mother to sympathize and understand. But I don't know if she does.

Yet, she still makes me smile. And it is great pleasure to be around someone, who without telling you, makes it obvious the pride that exists in her heart. It is in the crack of her odd voice. And in the glimmer in her eye. I can only imagine the sensation of watching a child become a man. She lets me know just how amazing that sensation must feel. And she does not even need to tell me.

I barely mustered enough energy to see my mom out the door. I was still sick and she's fine on her own. Georgi could not believe I did not accompany her to the train station or at least to catch a cab. But that is it right there. We're individuals. We don't need unnecessary showings of love or caring. It's deeper than all those rituals of what mothers do for sons and vice versa. We've always been more friends. Even if we disagree on the state of union.

And then she was gone. On the train to BWI. And so I joined G for brunch with his friend Christopher and then, later, drank wine with Denise and Alireza and Eric and we, along with Georgi, went to wish Dusti and Juli a goodbye. They're leaving NYC. I was their first friend here, and though there were some awkward feelings due to Ben's presence as well, their party was a fitting send-off. Bubby's BBQ and pies. Grey Goose Martinis. The Naked Cowboy (seriously, they hired him). And the Empire State visible from the rooftop party. Too bad my mom missed this party.

In Sunday's paper was a story of a man. Steven Schnipper was his name. Reading about him in the 1970s sounded like me (and many other gays who escape to NYC for the obvious reasons). "He loved museums, architecture, reading, first edition books, the theater, seeing four movies in one day with his friend Annette Williams; the clothes at Barneys, Bergdorf and Armani; cosmetics counters, face creams, spas, manicures and pedicures; travel; five-star hotels; Swiss Style design; Helvetica typeface; the simple beauty of a straight, clean line." I was not kidding, was I?

Steven and I met last August. I interviewed him at DWR and he charmed the socks off me. His extensive background in graphic design, his education, his work history (Lauder and Knoll) were all very impressive. And he was overly qualified to be a shop girl like myself. The story in the Times is about how a talented man lost a few jobs, struggled with his mortgage, and ultimately killed himself. Not getting the job at DWR was referenced in the story. It hit me in the stomach. Not because I somehow thought I was in the least bit part of the story. But because I see many a similarity between Steven and me. And I think of the sadness that consumes me when I am physically ill and I wondered what life must be like to experience that when you're otherwise healthy. That is a scary thought. A friend on Facebook wrote "very sad but then again, cockroaches fight for their lives..." in response to when I posted the Times story on Steven's life and suicide. At first I found Joel’s remark insensitive. But the more I thought about it I found it to be inspirational. Life is not always going to be easy. Everyone is not always going to agree with you. Even your mother. But at the end of the day we're left with a choice: to fight or not.

I'm a slugger and always will be. And you can thank my mom for those fighter's fists.

September 9, 2009

I was exhausted. And I was really exhausted, not the fake exhaustion I sometimes feign to be dramatic. I barely kept my eyes open.

He worked late. Such is loving a robot or a banker. And after I spent the day moving and unpacking and unsettling and shopping (picture mounting hardware at Container Store, blue baby snow-globe from France at Paul Smith) I was tired. My brief time in the West Village was over. I was back on 6th Avenue, at 15th Street, a mere block away from my 1st NYC apartment (if you don't count the FIT dorms), an apartment I moved in with my then boyfriend Louis Alfieri. I was such a kid then. It is amazing that this city did not devour me. Then again, maybe it did. It threw me all the way to San Francisco.

And he came home late. And I waited up, barely, and he made me get up. I was not feeling it and got a little nasty. He insisted and told me I had to and he took me by the hand into the kitchen and opened a bottle of Veuve and said that we had to toast our new home. Our first night together. Our future. And I did not want to. I wanted to sleep. I don't even care for champagne much these days (my taste long ago veered toward shaken vodka and deep red wines). Champagne is what I drank when I was younger and fabulous and ran around Mecca in SF on Sunday afternoons getting sloshed with people like Eric Lee and Marc Gallagher and Jimmy Markee. Tasting the champagne made me think of friends in SF and though drinking it was the last thing I wanted to do this night I, of course, obliged. He was happy. Really happy. And that makes me happy. And it made me awake.

And now a few weeks after moving in together here we are settled. Bright, bold, graphic posters from Communist Bulgaria hang above my Blu Dot Sofa. A flag I created with Tommy Coggia hangs above his wooden platform bed. His green dishes sit stacked next to my orange ones. His Eames Aluminum Management chairs sits at a pink lacquered console table made to be a desk. On the Saarinen table sits two sandstone hearts colored royal, and teal, blues. I bought him one when our love was draped in secrecy. I kept the other and told him that they would one day be together. They are now. (On a side table sits Sandra's heart).

Summer was about to end. So we took one last trip to the island where gay men lip synch in videos to Miley Cyrus and drinking heavily and casual sex are expected and encouraged. A place where cars do not roam and holding your lover's hand never comes with second guessing. Where walking along the beach brings one in contact with friends from past lives and where meeting new people comes easily and often.

And to celebrate summer's end my housemates and I decided to throw a party. We acquired booze and bartenders and decked the decks in gold floral sheeting, metallic and textured. I spray painted their costumes and shoes and painted their faces gold. They, and I, and Georgi shimmered in the sun. Lina played beats from above the pool. I ran around like a kid with attention deficit disorder who'd gotten in a fight with Cher's make-up artist. Needless to say, the party was a hit. We ended the summer with a bang. The pictures are major. The glitter remains on eye lids and weekend bags and toiletries. Reminders of this last hurrah.

And the next day we were supposed to relax and hit other parties and dine with Michael Lucas and stay the night. But we opted to escape early. A day early. To return home. Fire Island is fun. But it's work and not for everyone. And if I am being honest, it is not my scene. I enjoy it, like I do San Francisco, and Baltimore, in sporadic trips. Brief encounters. Not regularly scheduled visits. I don't think we'll be sharing there next summer. That's not to say I don't adore it. And from this summer I have great memories with new friends and I really got to know some of my housemates who, though they sometimes drove me mad, I adored and cherished moments shared with. But, we needed to go.

We returned to the city to work on the apartment. We hung those Bulgarian posters and some Simboli posters and ran 6 miles and had brunch and invited Alireza and Richard Pulik over for some wine. And the heat subsided and NYC had a crispness in the air. And just like that summer moved on. And the way it goes you can't tag along. Seasons can't last. But memories can.

Golden. Blurry. Done.

September 4, 2009

"Because just when you least expect it. Just what you least expect. Love comes quickly, whatever you do. You can't stop falling."-Pet Shop Boys

I arrived at Alireza's apartment. I was the first to arrive. We poured a vodka as my eye wondered around his house, which I'd never been to in the daylight. Dress forms draped, art books, magazines, Fornasetti plates, polka-dotted bedding. Visual overload.

Theron arrived and then Joe and finally Georgi. We posed for a photo with PSB vinyl and set out to Hammerstein. Joe and Theron and Ali are musical kindred spirits to me. We all obsess over singers and songs and live shows. We talk obsessively about bands. Music feeds many people, but there are some, like us, who it is necessary. Needed. Like food and water, we cannot live without.

A second vodka and t-shirt bought and the five of us descend into the crowd. Neil comes out in ridiculous hat and the set is made up of boxes that build and fall. He sings Go West and the crowd erupts. Georgi, younger than I, did not know the significance of the lyrics or the fact that the Village People originally recorded it. I love sharing things I love with him. He, in turn, seems happy to hear me go on and on and on about the Village People. Alexander Girard. Diana Ross. Furniture. Cyndi Lauper. Whoever I am currently obsessing over. It would annoy most. Not him.

New York City Boy. Always On My Mind. Suburbia. It's A Sin. Glorious, clear, still sounding new. We all danced and sung and clapped and jumped and went nuts. Felt young. Fed ourselves.

Georgi whispered in my ear on the floor last night something that made me feel like the most special, loved person in the world. Lights flashing. Friends jumping. An icon singing. And he there by my side. In my arms. Everything is right in the universe.

Afterwards, we pigged out on fattening food at a diner with Joe. He pressed us to tell him the full story of how we met. We obliged. And then he told us his own. Which for some time was shrouded in secrecy too. And it made me smile with the thought that others have what G and I have. Joe and John have been together for over ten years I believe. That thought makes me excited for our future.

The future looks bright, tonight. It's so bright. Tonight.

August 30, 2009

He in adorable green Kid Robot T, emblazoned with "LOVE," and I in striped T, emblazoned with the image of Marilyn Monroe, sat next to Joe D'Espinosa on glorious white leather sofas at the Norwood Club watching The Countess, a new friend, read and scream and sing and whisper pieces of her coming show "There's a Lot of Hate in Your Love."

None here though. None on that couch where I was brought to near tears, overwhelmed, by the swirling emotions inside, butterflies beating against the lining of stomach, waiting to fly free from my mouth in adulations, poems, blog posts, and sweet nothings. We stared each other down. Held one another closer. Completion of self in the arms of another.

I too only find myself when lost in someone else.

Hours earlier we chowed down on burgers and shopped for Alexander Girard bed linens and pillows. We hung painted portraits of drag queens. Bickered over how to hang shelves and measure walls. We laughed, fell down onto feathers, smiling and laughing. Anxious about the future. Excited by the prospects of falling deeper and deeper and giddy. Very giddy. Gleeful. Grateful to have found this bliss.

This Grace.

That is the word that keeps coming back to me. Grace. Beauty. Elegance. Simplicity in form, manner, motion, or action. In every interaction. In every body language uttering. In every glance across the room. In every smile. In every embrace. In every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month. Grace. Building. Shining. Not dulling.

Thursday's move was exhausting, yet exciting. Our apartment is colorful and eclectic. It's cheerful. Happy. Reflective.

Friday afternoon on Fire Island I was jealous of Matthew and Michael's embraces as we walked the beach to Cherry Grove. Friday night, after a few drinks and a few dances with Corey and Lina and Tanner and others I probably cannot remember, I called Georgi while Babst prepared what was to become a lovely dinner of charred steak. I was surrounded by fun people and good food and ecstatic music. Yet I was not home. Not complete. Not able to relax.

Georgi asked me what he could pick up for me at the grocery store. I made a simple request, coffee, and said goodnight. I ate and danced a bit more and at 11PM, when my housemates were gearing up to go out, I put myself to bed. And it hit me then and there how domesticated we'd become and how simple our life together has become. We've eased into a life living together.

Saturday AM I boarded the ferry and rushed back home and was greeted by the biggest brown eyes and teeth stretched across his face. And he said we're acting like a family unit. And we speak of being fathers, and of course, I have spoken about kids before with past loves, but this time, it is different. I think I do want kids. And that too excites me. Who am I?

The sweetest perfection. A perfect love. I hereby do swear to live my life in accordance with grace.

August 16, 2009

I've never been one to not rush into things. And with Georgi I did pace myself. Really. Obviously, the reality of my life at one time prevented rushing. And he and I became friends first and friends are what we've remained. Best friends. There was a natural ease to our friendship and love and it has unfolded and grown in sweet and lovely ways. Each petal unfolding like a tin flower.

Gay men like sex. This is a known fact. And most gay men I know have sex with their first dates. Often times we have sex and then go on dates with that person. Same thing as straights, just as Boy George once sang, in reverse. Regardless, we usually figure that compatibility out rather quickly. I am not going to talk about my sex life here, but I will say this, it too was not rushed this time around.

Wait. I guess I am writing about it.

What I am trying to say is that I decided to move in with Georgi. Or rather, I should say, we decided I'd move in. See it has been 2 months since I've even slept at my own charming little studio. I have some anxiety announcing this to those close to me. So in classic Shellhammer fashion I will write it for the world. Here. It's easier that way and in putting it out there people can think what they want. I just don't have to see their expressions. Though I know most, if not all, would be supportive.

There are still layers of hurt of discomfort and uneasiness concerning what has happened to me in the past year. But being just one soul, with one heart, a rather big one, but one, nonetheless, I can only do what I know/feel is right. And what is right for me now is being close to Georgi and sharing my life with him. So, there it is. I am not abiding by the rules many others feel they need in their life. Isn't it too soon? Didn't you just get your own place? Don't you want to not rush in? What most don't realize is that my/our feelings are so big that this wait was holding off. We simply cannot be apart. It's a rather joyous place to be.

Coincidentally, I am now living one city block from where I lived with my first boyfriend Louis in 1998. I am going to have fun decorating this place with Georgi and thankfully he is agreeable to my need for color. Watermelon pink lacquered desk? Sure thing.

He's still in Bulgaria. And I am still here. And I just saw District 9 with Orlando and it's made me think about love. The film, a wonderful piece of art, making action film high-brow, with animation so real I thought the creatures were indeed actors, with a lead performance Oscar worthy, with a deep sadness about the human experience and the ways of the world, but also with an optimism, a sense of hope, a belief in what makes the heart tick-tock, true love.

The ending scene of the film provided a lightness to my step walking home, even with my aching foot and knee. Thank you 33 years of age coupled with a 6 1/2 mile run. The body starting to show minor pulls and strain. But the heart is very much strong, even bigger and fitter, than it was a block away a decade ago. Imagine that.

The cherries I consumed in mass amounts have not been as sweet. The workouts have been much less intense. And my bed, our bed, has been way too firm. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say. They say a lot of stupid things. This is my way of making flowers from cat food cans. And this is the doorstep I leave them on. For you, my love.

This facebook meme asked for 50 artists you've seen live. I did not count Broadway, but put in some big name djs. I kept going after 50. Jesus. I wonder who I missed?

Anyway. An interesting, yet not surprising, mix.

1. erasure
2. pet shop boys
3. everything but the girl
4. madonna
5. beyonce
6. depeche mode
7. morrissey
8. sinead o'connor
9. billie ray martin
10. simply red
11. coldplay
12. rem
13. patti lupone
14. bjork
15. beastie boys
16. cher
17. tina turner
18. cyndi lauper
19. blondie
20. the gossip
21. nine inch nails
22. skinny puppy
23. an emotional fish
24. INXS
25. mariah carey
26. mary j. blige
27. siouxsie and the banshees
28. jane's addition
29. jesus jones
30. rufus wainwright
31. kevin aviance
32. martha wainwright
33. the the
34. radiohead
35. david bowie
36. moby
37 enrique iglesias
38. paulina rubio
39. lou reed
40. jellyfish
41. verness mitchell
42. grace jones
43. kristine w.
44. liza minelli
45. peaches
46. fishcher spponer
47. scissor sisters
48. joey arias
49. the cure
50. busta rhymes
51. fat joe
52. deee-lite
53. crystal waters
54. ultra nate
55. 'n sync
56. b-52s
57. violent femmes
58. sunscreem
59. new order
60. public image limited
61. the sugarcubes
62. front 242
63. dead or alive
64. marcella detroit
65. amber
66. truth hurts
67. missy elliot
68. tweet
69. destiny's child
70. tony bennett
71. 10,000 Maniacs
72. 98* Degrees
73. afghan wigs
74. amanda perez
75. angie stone
76. ashanti
77. beck
78. betty
79. blue's traveler
80. britney spears
81. Nikka costa
82. butthole surfers
83. byron stingily
84. candis cayne
85. catherine wheel
86. charlotte
87. cee-Lo
89. cocteau twins
90. cooler kids
91. rooney
92. the like
93. cracker
94. dana glover
95. danny tenaglia
96. dave matthews band
97. david morales
98. deborah cox
99. donna delory
100. emmylou harris
101. fishbone
102. frankie knuckles
103. funky green dogs
104. galaxie 500
105. glenn lewis
106. gus gus
107. hedda lettuce
108. herbie hancock
109. joan rivers
110. kathy griffin
111. jackie beat
112. amanda lepore
111. heklina
112. juanita more!
113. peaches christ
114. holly woodlawn
115. Ice cube
116. Ice T
117. La India
118. Ja Rule
119. Jay Z
120. Pussycat Dolls
121. Jimmie's Chicken Shack
122. Junior Vasquez
123. Keke Wyatt
124. Khia
125. Kim English
126. Jennifer Holiday
127. Lady Bunny
128. Live
129. Living Color
130. Luscious Jackson
131. Margaret Cho
132. midnight oil
133. judybats
134. martha wash
135. melanie c.
136. meredith brooks
137. me'shell ndegeocello
138. Mystic
139. naughty by nature
140. ned's atomic dustbin
141. crowded house
142. phranc
143. nitzer ebb
144. patti labelle
145. pavement
146. pearl jam
147. peter rauhofer
148. phish
149. primus
150. princess superstar
151. nellie mckay
152. pulp
153. red hot chili peppers
154. robyn hitchcock
155. sandra bernhard
156. sandy b.
157. barbara tucker
158. sean lennon
159. shannon
160. louie louie
162. soni youth
163. soup dragons
164. duran duran
165. Squeeze
166. Sting
167. Suzanne Palmer
168. Celeda
169. The Charlatans UK
170. The Negro Problem
171. The Ocean Blue
172. The Wallflowers
173. They Might Be Giants
174. Usher
175. Varla Jean Merman
176. Veronica
177. Victor Calderone
178. judy albanese
179. Wild Orchid
180. Wire
181. Wyclef Jean
182. X
183. Xhibit
184. france Joli
185. Donna Summer
186. jaguares
187. lorna luft